


Reunion

by Persuade_me



Series: Arya/Gendry Week 2019 [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Gendry sleeps naked, Show Ages, axgweek, axgweek2019, book canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 22:03:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20238562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persuade_me/pseuds/Persuade_me
Summary: She's left the House of Black and White and returned to Westeros. The first thing she does is find him at the Crossroads.Written for Arya/Gendry week. Day 3 - Reunion





	Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> Book canon. Show ages. Spoilers for the released Arya chapter "Mercy" from Winds of Winter if you care about that kind of thing. Ended up a bit longer than I originally intended.
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at fandomjuxtaposition if you really want to, but I'm pretty boring.

Reunion

She watched him, unseen from the shadow of the trees, the early morning light not yet bright enough to break through the canopy of leaves above. _ He’s grown_, she thought. In her memories, he towered over her, his bulky frame easily enveloping hers, shielding her, on the road, at Harrenhal, with the Brotherhood. Looking at him now though, she realized her mind must have invented his size because somehow he was both smaller than she remembered and yet much more impressive at the same time. The width of his shoulders, the stretch of his arm as he raised his hammer. They were far more... _ more _ than ever before.

Her memories of him were that of a child, of a girl who could not see the man beneath her friend. But she was no longer a child . At nearly seven and ten, she was a woman grown, and the Gendry in the forge across the yard, raining down blow after blow against the anvil, in this Gendry, she could barely see her friend through the man. This Gendry brought a flush to her cheeks and a shiver down her spine that she never could have seen or even understood before now.

As she watched, he set down his hammer and made what must have been an unconscious gesture to brush his hair out of his eyes, but his hair had grown too. It was still as thick and black as before, but now it was tied back with a strip of leather and wrapped up in some kind of knot at the back of his head. His features had sharpened as well, the lingering softness of the boyish face she remembered was gone, leaving a harder, more mature look. 

One thing that hadn’t changed was the striking blue of his eyes. Even from a distance, she could see that the color of his eyes remained exactly as it had in her memory, but there was none of the warmth, none of the sparkling laughter that had occasionally surfaced in her dreams over the years. Arya saw anger and hostility in them as he surveyed his surroundings, and she wondered what had happened to him. It couldn’t have been any worse than what had happened to her.

Voices from the nearby inn drew her attention away from him, and she shrunk further back into the trees to observe. A girl about her age had emerged, followed by several smaller children who all took off running as soon as they cleared the door. The girl stalked across the yard to the forge, where she handed Gendry a chunk of bread before setting herself down on a stool. Arya could not make out the words, but she could hear their voices. Gendry’s was much deeper than she remembered, but his tone was harsh and his words were clipped. 

After a few minutes, the girl stood and walked back to the inn, leaving Gendry alone in the forge. She wanted to go to him. It’d been almost four years since they were separated, since the Hound had snatched her away. And while she’d tried her best to forget herself, to forget him, just as Arya Stark had not been able to become no one, he had never truly left her heart.

So when she’d left the House of Black and White to return to Westeros, she’d thought to look for him, that she might find welcome with him. Even though he’d elected to remain with the Brotherhood, he was still pack, and the Gendry she remembered would have welcomed her back without question. 

But this Gendry, she was unsure about. He’d changed. Would he scowl at her and speak harshly? Would he even remember her? She stood watching him, frozen in indecision. Should she slip away through the trees, or should she step forward and reveal herself? 

A shrill cry broke through the silence and made the choice for her.

“A lady! There’s a lady in the woods!” Ten feet away, a boy of about six was pointing at her. “She’s got a sword!”

At his words, children seemed to swarm out of nowhere, pouring from the inn. Boys and girls from as young as two up to three and ten or so gathered behind the one who’d cried out, all eyeing her warily. She quickly noticed that several of the older ones carried crossbows, so she held herself very still, trying not to seem threatening.

The sudden influx of what seemed like a hundred armed children had torn her attention away from Gendry, and when she looked back over to the forge she saw him striding towards her. As he drew nearer, she watched his face, and she could see the exact moment that he recognized her. He halted, mid-step. His glare vanished, replaced by a look of stunned disbelief as his eyes traveled from her head all the way down to her boots and back up, lingering for a brief moment on her chest before returning to her face. 

“Gendry, that lady’s got a sword!” one of the boys said, pulling on his arm.

“That’s no lady, Ben,” he said brusquely, his eyes still on her. 

She smiled slightly, and he was moving again, moving so purposely and with a look of such intensity on his face that she almost took a step backwards. He didn’t slow down or falter, just wrapped his arms around her, carrying her backwards with his momentum as he lifted her off her feet and squeezed so tightly she could scarcely catch her breath.

For a moment, she just held still in his arms, letting the relief of it wash over her. Then she realized he was carrying her deeper into the trees, away from the children and the inn, and she had a brief moment of panic before brushing it away. This was _ Gendry,_ and he’d never hurt her, but still.

“Are you going to put me down?” she asked, her voice muffled by his shoulder. At her words, he stopped, and lowered her to the ground, but he didn’t loosen his grip. She managed to wiggle her arms away from where they were trapped at her side and snaked them up and around his neck. Standing on tiptoe, she buried her face in his neck and breathed in deeply. His scent was leather and flame and smoke and sweat, and she hadn’t smelled anything so comforting, so familiar since she’d left Winterfell all those years ago.

After several long moments, he finally pulled back, his eyes searching hers, his face oddly blank. 

“Gendry, I-” but before she could say anything else, he’d grabbed her hand and turned, pulling her deeper into the forest. Arya let him lead her, trusting that he had a purpose. When they finally reached a small clearing, he dropped her hand and faced her. 

“Where the fuck have you been?!” he exploded at her. She recoiled a bit at the fury in his voice, not expecting such ferocity from him. “Gods, Arya, it’s been _ years_, and you just disappeared, and no one knew anything, and you show up here out of nowhere, and I thought you were _ dead_.” His voice cracked on the last word, and he seemed to deflate, the anger fading from his face. “You were dead,” he whispered. 

“I’m not dead, Gendry,” she said quietly. “I’ve just been...away. It’s a long story, and it’s not a pleasant one.” She looked at him, wondering if he’d still accept her if he knew what she’d done. “I’m...different now. The things I’ve done. I’m not the same girl I was.”

He gave a derisive laugh. “And you think I am? You think I’ve been here, waiting peacefully, shoeing horses and fixing swords, while the wars happen around me? You think I haven’t done terrible things? You’re not the only one who’s different now.” And she could see it, the hardness in his eyes, in the way he carried himself.

“We’ve all changed,” she said shortly. “We’ve had to if we wanted to survive.”

The sound of someone crashing through the trees drew their attention to the direction of the inn. The girl she’d seen talking to Gendry earlier burst into the clearing, looking between her and Gendry suspiciously. 

“Gendry? Ben said- Is everything all right?” she asked, uncertainty in her voice.

“It’s fine, Willow,” he snapped. “Go back to the inn.”

The girl, Willow, didn’t move. She looked doubtfully at Arya, her eyes resting on Needle hanging at her waist. 

“Go. She’s an old friend,” Gendry told her forcefully. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

She turned and retreated back through the woods. They watched until they could no longer see her and then turned back to each other. The scowl on his face faded when their eyes met, and he smiled at her.

“I can’t believe you’re really here,” he said. “You look...good.” His gaze was traveling down her body again, much less subtly this time, and that was how she _ knew _ he’d changed. The Gendry she’d left behind would have never eyed her so blatantly. This Gendry seemed bolder, more confident, and Arya was surprised to find that she liked it. A lot.

She let her eyes slowly trace down the lines of his body and back up to his face. “Thanks. So do you,” she replied.

They stood there, silently taking each other in, when he gave a start, breaking the moment.

“Is that-” He stretched out a hand towards her. “Is that _ Needle_?”

Smiling widely, she drew it out and handed it to him.

“How in the seven hells did you find it again?” He was examining her sword, a look of wonder on his face.

“It’s part of that long story,” she said quietly, remembering the blood that covered her hands that day.

Gendry looked up at her. “Will you tell me about it?” he asked.

She nodded. “Someday.”

“Someday,” he repeated, and it sounded like a promise.

And then he laughed, a loud, joyful laugh as he wrapped his arms around her again and spun her in a circle.

***

After she’d retrieved her horse and her bags from where she’d slept in the woods the night before, they returned to the inn. Standing in the common room, she’d been startled to realize that it was where she and the Hound had killed the Tickler and Polliver. She stood there, staring at the stains on the floor, until Gendry had nudged her, a question in his eyes. Brushing away the memory, she introduced herself to Willow and the children as Arry, not quite ready to hear anyone but Gendry using her name. Willow seemed nice enough, but she still eyed Arya uneasily, which she couldn’t blame her for. Not in times like these.

“How long will you be needing a room?” Willow asked.

Beside her, she felt Gendry stiffen. 

“Not sure just yet,” she said, turning to look at him. “Got some catching up to do first.”

He smiled, and she saw his body relax just a bit, but he still seemed tense. She’d gotten the impression he was reluctant to leave her side, and if she had to admit it, she really didn’t want him to, so when he offered to show her to her room, she followed him willingly.

When she’d shut the door behind her, he rounded on her, his eyes glinting dangerously as he leaned over her. “You’re not running off on me again.” It wasn’t a question. It was more like an order.

She bristled slightly, but couldn’t deny that this new forceful side of Gendry was ridiculously appealing to her. 

“Wasn’t planning to,” she said, pushing past him. “Not yet anyway.”

“No, Arya. Not _ ever. _ You’ve finally come back to me. You’re mad if you think I’m just letting you go,” he said, almost in a growl.

Arya turned to argue, but inhaled sharply at the look on his face. He was looking at her almost hungrily, and she immediately felt a jolt somewhere deep in her gut. Heat bloomed through her, and she suddenly found it difficult to breathe.

Gendry smirked.

She felt a brief flash of annoyance at the knowing look on his face and at herself for not hiding her reaction to him. The Faceless Men had trained her for almost anything; she should be able to control herself. But she honestly wasn’t sure if she wanted to. Seeing Gendry, seeing him taller and stronger and broader had awakened something within, something she didn’t want to put back to sleep, something that made her _ ache_. 

She shifted her hips, arching her back slightly and lifting her chin as she let her eyes wander down to his chest and back up. “I suppose you’re going to stop me?” she asked teasingly.

In seconds, he was in front of her, crowding her back against the wall and stealing what little breath remained. “Damn right, I am.”

Something almost erupted inside her. Something demanding she push back. Her time in Braavos had taught her many new skills, including how to overpower those bigger and stronger than herself. It was the work of only a moment, and Gendry was on his back looking up at her as she straddled him. 

“And how,” she asked, smirking down at him “do you propose to do that?”

He was gazing up at her with a look of awe mixed with something else, something almost feral. He wrapped one of his stupidly large arms around her, pulling her flush against him and rolling over so her body was pinned beneath his. 

“You don’t know how strong I am,” he said roughly.

Arya slipped out from underneath him and rolled away, narrowly escaping his hand that shot out to pull her back. “You don’t know how quick I am.”

When he moved to grab her again, a terrifying thrill spread through her, and she didn’t even pretend to try and stop him when he hovered over her, his knees on either side. He took both her wrists in one hand and held them over her head as his other hand settled on her waist. His face was inches from hers, and the feral look in his eyes had vanished. “Do you remember Acorn Hall?” he asked softly. 

She nodded, unable to speak. They’d rolled around on the floor together then too, but this, this was entirely different. This was her heartbeat pulsing through her, her wrists on fire, her breathing erratic. This was _ want_.

He let go of her wrists and moved his hand to cup her cheek. A tendril of his hair had worked loose of the knot, and without thinking, she reached up to tuck it behind his ear, his eyes fluttering closed as she did.

“_Where were you? _ ” he asked. “I looked for you. Every day, everywhere I went. After everyone else stopped, and even after I was sure you must be dead, I looked for you.” He opened his eyes and gazed down at her, a mixture of relief and pain etched on his face. “I’m not just letting you go again, Arya. I _ can’t _.” 

Arya’s heart clenched at the look on his face, the tone of his voice. She’d known he cared about her, just as she cared for him, but this was something more. Something beyond caring. And despite the undeniable fact that her body wanted nothing more than for him to close the scant distance between them, something she wasn’t quite ready to face yet. “Gendry, I-”

Shouts sounded from outside, and he was instantly pulling himself off of her and moving to the window before she could react. Her body still humming, she lay there a moment before stepping up beside him and looking down in the yard to see a group of riders dismounting their horses.

“Shit!” 

Surprised, Arya turned to Gendry, finding him with both his hands on his head and a look of panic on his face. 

“What’s wrong? Who is that?”

“It’s the Brotherhood, part of them anyway.”

She blinked in confusion. “And?”

“They can’t know you’re here. Not yet. They’ll take you to her. You- Arya, I can’t let them. You have to know first.” He was staring at her helplessly, and she knew something was very wrong. 

“Her?”

Gendry’s face hardened, and his jaw clenched. He stared at her for a moment before his expression softened again, and he reached out for her hand. “I don’t know how to tell you this,” he said quietly.

“Tell me what?”

“Gods, Arya. Just- Maybe we should sit down.” He led her over to the bed, and they both settled themselves down on the edge. Arya looked at him uncertainly, the heat he’d ignited was being overtaken by a sliver of dread uncurling in her gut. Whatever he was about to tell her, it wasn’t going to be good. 

He ran his hand over his face and took a deep breath. “When you left, when you ran out into the night, I went after you,” he said. “Beric said to leave you be, that you’d come back, but I didn’t think you should be out in the rain all alone, so I went looking for you. I called for you for hours, over and over, but I couldn’t find you. You just...disappeared.”

“The Hound. I was going to come back, but the Hound took me.”

“Yeah, we worked that bit out eventually. The day after, we looked everywhere but you were gone. We ended up heading to the Twins, figuring that’s where you’d go. _ They _ wanted you for the ransom, but I just wanted to find _ you_.” He hesitated.

“We didn’t quite make it. We passed people on the road who talked about a massacre, and by then we knew the Hound had you, and that he must have been taking you to the Twins.” She closed her eyes; she saw the flames, heard the song, felt the blow of his axe. 

“He did,” she whispered, opening her eyes.

“You were_ there_?” He looked horrified. “How-”

She shrugged. “We were too late. I tried to run inside. He stopped me.”

He was looking at her with too much concern, too much sympathy. She waved it away impatiently; she couldn’t handle that right now. 

“It’d been days since…the wedding,” he continued, “and there were so many bodies, Arya. Just floating in the river, washed up on the bank, everywhere, and there were...wolves.” 

A memory stirred at the back of her mind, a wispy, half-remembered dream, and her heart suddenly felt as if a fist had closed around it.

“One of the wolves, a massive grey one, was hovering over a body, like it was guarding it, but it ran off when we got close.” He looked at her, stricken. “The body, Arya, it was…” He trailed off, then took a deep breath. “It was your mother. Harwin recognized her, and he asked Thoros to- But Thoros wouldn’t. Said it’d been too long. She wouldn’t be the same. So Beric kissed her, and...” He fell silent again.

Arya’s stomach had begun to churn, her body going cold with fear. Four years ago, she would have been ecstatic to think her mother might be returned to her, no matter the cost. But now, after her time with the Faceless Men, and being so utterly consumed by death, she knew how it took its toll. One always paid. 

She shook her head at him, as the bile rose in her throat. “No, no, no, no,” she chanted over and over, denial pouring from her.

Gendry looked at her, with an expression of half regret, half pity. “She rose, Arya. Beric fell, and she rose.” He reached out for her hand, but she scrambled backwards away from him, desperate for space, for air.

So she fled. She tore down the stairs and through the inn, her mind barely registering the group of men she barrelled through in her haste. She did not stop, not even when she heard Gendry shouting her name. She ran. Out of the inn and into the woods. She ran until she reached the clearing where she fell to her knees and vomited, stomach heaving until she could barely breathe. 

_ Her mother. _

She stayed there, motionless, waiting for the revulsion to pass, for the buzz in her head to stop. After a few long moments, she began to breathe again. Sounds began to gradually come back to her, and she could hear raised voices coming from the direction of the inn. Even from this distance, she could feel the fury in Gendry’s tone. 

She crawled over to a tree, and leaned back against it, her eyes closed, breathing shakily. _ Gods, her mother. _ She’d never expected that. Despite everything she’d seen, everything she’d done, that had shaken her more than anything. 

She wasn’t sure how long she sat there before she heard his footsteps in the trees. Gendry lowered himself to the ground beside her and wordlessly handed her a wineskin. Gratefully, she gulped it down. Partly to get the taste of vomit out of her mouth and partly wishing she could drink away the knowledge of what he told her.

He sat quietly beside her, his shoulder pressing against hers, anchoring her. “Tell me,” she said, closing her eyes, determined to hear everything and hating herself for the tiny stab of longing she felt.

“She’s led the Brotherhood ever since. The trials, the hangings. They follow her.” He paused. “_ We _ follow her. The ones that are left anyway.”

“So after everything, you serve my mother.” Arya didn’t know why this bothered her so much.

“No. I never knew Lady Catelyn, only what you told me, but Lady Stoneheart...she’s not your mother. You need to know that, Arya.” He reached over to take her hand, and she turned to find him looking at her, concern all over his face. “She’s...vengeance.”

Arya wasn’t sure how to respond to that. She looked at him, feeling terribly confused. She knew he wasn’t lying, that it wasn’t her, but there was also a part of her that desperately hoped that maybe just a tiny part of Catelyn Stark remained. 

“They know you’re here now,” he said sighing. “I convinced Harwin to wait, not to take you to her immediately, but you don’t have much time.”

“Harwin’s here?”

He nodded. “Look, Arya, if you don’t want to see her, I’ll get you out of here-”

“No,” she cut him off. “I need to see her. You say she isn’t my mother, and I believe you, but I need to know what she is.” She sighed. “Just, give me a day first.”

***

They were to ride out first thing in the morning. Harwin had wanted to leave immediately, but Gendry had raged at him so fiercely that even she was a little taken aback. It annoyed her a bit that he’d seemingly appointed himself as her protector, but at the same time she had to admit that after years of taking care of herself, there was something deeply appealing about letting him take charge and fight that battle for her. 

Gendry barely left her side all day, and truthfully, she didn’t want him to. He’d once been her constant companion, her best friend, and despite the way they’d both changed, his presence felt like she’d suddenly found a vital piece of herself she hadn’t known was missing. 

They talked for hours. He told her what he could of her family, which wasn’t much. Rumors of her sister’s disappearance from King’s Landing, strange reports of her brother from the Wall. When he told her of the supposed marriage of Arya Stark to the bastard Ramsay Snow, he’d had to chase her into the road to stop her from riding north to reclaim Winterfell all by herself.

He told her of the Freys and the Lannisters, how many they’d killed. He told her what he knew of King’s Landing and the rest of Westeros. 

She told him about the Hound and a little about Braavos. He knew she was keeping things back, but he didn’t push her for anything more. He was simply content to be with her again.

***

Arya couldn’t sleep. The revelation that her mother was...not alive, but not exactly dead either, had fucked her up. Catching up with Gendry had been a distraction - a large, muscled, extremely handsome distraction, but now alone in her room, she couldn’t stop thinking about her undead mother. She had no idea what to expect, and all her training couldn’t settle her mind no matter how hard she tried. 

Sighing, she got out of bed and slipped into her breeches and a pair of boots. She lit a candle before creeping out of the inn and across to the forge to find Gendry asleep in the small room off the back. 

He was laying on his stomach under a thin blanket pulled up to his waist, and he wasn’t wearing a tunic. She stood there quietly, remembering how she used to watch him work at Harrenhal all those years ago. She’d been young, too young to recognize why she’d liked watching him so much. Now, though, she knew exactly what it was about the lines of his back, the strength of his arms that had drawn her in. That was still drawing her in.

In his sleep, Gendry shifted and the blanket slipped down below his waist, revealing the curve of his skin. _ Oh _. She flushed as another memory from Harrenhal burst through. Gendry, naked. He’d slept naked then. Apparently, he still slept naked. Very, very naked. 

She must have made a noise, because he was pushing himself up off the bed, the blanket falling away as he stood.

She was no stranger to the naked form. She’d washed countless dead bodies in Braavos. Old, young, beautiful, ugly, male, female. She’d seen every possible kind in the House of Black and White. She’d seen them in the theatre and on the barges of the courtesans. And nakedness had never been anything to her but just...nakedness.

Oh, but this. 

Arya couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. He was _ beautiful_. Every single inch of him, from his tangled black hair all the way down to his toes. And dear gods, he was massive everywhere.

“Arya?” His voice was sleepy and a bit confused. “Are you all right?”

She couldn’t answer. Her eyes were locked below his waist. Gods, she’d seen enough cocks in her life. Why was his having this effect on her?

“Arya?” He definitely sounded more awake now. Her eyes flicked up to find him looking at her with concern, but she was having a hard time keeping her gaze on his face. Not when he was just _ there _ in all his nakedness.

Gendry started to move towards her, but he seemed to realize that he wasn’t wearing anything because he stopped short. She couldn’t help but notice he didn’t make any attempt to cover himself though.

“Arya?” He sounded amused now. “What are you doing here?”

She forced her eyes to meet his. There was a slight tinge of red on his cheeks, but he looked rather pleased with himself.

“I- I couldn’t sleep,” she told him, her face burning. The sight of him had chased all thoughts of the next day out of her mind, but the worries about facing her mother came flooding back the moment she remembered why she was there. “I can’t stop thinking about my…about tomorrow.” 

The self-satisfied smile on his face instantly dropped, replaced by concern. He took another step towards her then stopped. He moved across the room to put on a pair of breeches before coming back and pulling her into his arms. 

She closed her eyes and buried her face in his chest. His well defined, muscular chest that her fingers itched to touch, despite the anxiety she was currently feeling.

“Can I stay with you?” she asked.

“Course you can,” he said instantly. “D’you want to sit?”

She shook her head. “Just- Can we lay down?” 

Gendry led her across to the bed and settled back against the wall. Arya kicked off her boots and curled in front of him, her back flush against his chest, his arms wrapped protectively around her. 

“Go to sleep, Arry,” he whispered. “I’ll be right here.”

***

She woke to the sound of fists pounding on the forge door. For half a moment, she couldn’t remember where she was, but then Gendry grumbled in her ear and his arms tightened around her middle. 

“Gendry!” Someone was shouting. And pounding on the door. Loudly. “Gendry! Get up! I can’t find Lady Arya!”

Arya groaned, and Gendry swore. He climbed over her, and went to open the door. Harwin was standing there, a look of panic on his face. “She’s not in her room, Gendry. Something’s happened to her-” 

His voice cut off as Gendry opened the door fully and stepped back to reveal Arya laying in his bed. Harwin’s face morphed from alarm to anger as he looked from a clearly sleepy Arya to a shirtless Gendry and back again. “You- She-” Harwin was spluttering, and Arya could see from his face that he was about to do something extremely stupid, like punch Gendry. She moved quickly, pulling herself out of bed and putting herself between the two men.

“Did you need me?” she asked pointedly.

Harwin was glaring at Gendry and did not answer. 

“Harwin!” she spoke sharply, and he snapped his eyes to her. “Did you need me?” she repeated. 

He looked at her suspiciously for a moment, his gaze flicking back to Gendry. “We need to leave, Lady Arya. Get ready.” And he spun on his heel and headed back to the inn.

Arya turned to Gendry to find him looking at her apprehensively. She raised her eyebrows in a silent question.

He ran his hand through his hair, pushing it off his face. “If he says something to Lady St- to your-” He frowned at her. “The Lady is not forgiving. If she thinks I’ve dishonored you…”

She blinked. The idea of someone hurting him because of her, hurting him at all was unthinkable. “No one’s _ touching _ you,” she said, staring at him. 

“Arya-”

“No,” she said stubbornly. “I’ll speak to Harwin. I don’t care if she is my mother, no one is laying a finger on you. Now get dressed.”

***

They rode for almost two hours, leaving behind a few of the other men to protect the inn. When they’d drawn closer to their destination, Harwin had tried to make her wear a hood so she wouldn’t see the exact location, but that discussion had not ended in his favor. She was going into this with her eyes wide open.

They were entering a more heavily wooded area, and she could see men watching them through the trees. A dark hollow in the side of a hill loomed ahead of them, and her heart was suddenly pounding. Dismounting, she looked around at the silently watching men. Members of the Brotherhood, she assumed. She recognized a few faces, but they were mostly strangers to her. 

Gendry moved next to her and gripped both of her arms in his hands. “Arya,” his eyes were full of worry. “Before you go in there, you- She’s not going to look anything like you remember. She was dead for days before… It’s not pretty, all right?”

She nodded and took a deep breath. _ Calm as still water. Fear cuts deeper than swords_. She could do this.

Arya walked to the entrance of the cave, Gendry only a step behind her. Standing in front of her was a man in tattered red robes, his weathered face broke into a smile when he saw her. “Lady Arya,” he said bowing slightly. “We all thought you dead. I am glad to see you again.”

“Thoros,” she nodded at him. “Where is she?”

“This way, my lady.” He turned and headed into the cave, Arya and Gendry following after him.

Thoros led her through a twisting passage that branched off to a large cavern lit by a fire in the center. He paused at the edge, letting Arya step up beside him. She could see a cloaked figure across the cave standing beside a table. 

She was suddenly terrified. 

Memories flooded through her. Her fears of being unwanted. Of never being good enough. Of chastisements and scoldings. The last time she’d seen her mother, she’d been eleven years old, wild and carefree, heading off on a grand adventure that had destroyed her family. And now she was grown and as unlike that little girl as she could possibly be. 

She turned to Gendry, almost wanting him to carry her away. She knew her fears were written plainly across her face. He reached out and grasped her shoulders, looking her in the eyes. “I’ll be right here.” 

_ Calm as still water. Fear cuts deeper than swords. _

Arya nodded at him, and turned to face the figure that was once her mother. 

***

It had been both worse and better than she was expecting. Even with Gendry’s warning, the specter that had been Catelyn Stark was ghastly. The pale, deathly skin, the white, brittle hair, the ragged scratches on her face, and the open slash across her throat. Nothing Gendry told her could have prepared her for the corpse of her mother reaching out, for the strangled words choked out from between her fingers, for the glimpse of bone white skull peeking out from under the gashes down the once beautiful face. She was not prepared for the horrific sight of her dead, but not dead mother. Nor was she prepared for the tears that came when she laid eyes on the first family member she’d seen since the day Yoren hacked her hair off and she became Arry the orphan boy. 

It was a strange feeling, simultaneously wanting to fling herself into her mother’s arms and wanting to run as far away as she could at the same time. In the end, she’d allowed the lady to hug her, and then Arya had sat with her face angled away as the lady stroked her hair. It was easier to pretend that way. They sat for hours, Arya sharing what had happened to her, although she was reluctant to tell everything. Her mother may be a ghost of who she was, but she thought that even the ghost of Catelyn Stark would be appalled at her daughter as a trained assassin. So when she spoke of Braavos, she spoke of canals and mummer’s plays and the Titan that towered over the harbor, not of halls of leathery faces or poisoned coins.

She talked until she was almost hoarse, but the lady barely spoke at all. Arya could hardly understand the unearthly sound that was her speech, but it didn’t seem to matter. Her mother, dead or not, had finally found one of her children again, and just Arya’s presence seemed to bring her some kind of comfort.

True to his word, when Arya had finally risen from the table in the cave, Gendry had been waiting at the entrance to the passage for her. He was sitting down, leaned back against the wall, but the moment he saw her coming, he jumped to his feet, concern on his face. 

“Are you all right?” 

“I don’t know,” she said. “I need some air.”

He led her back through the passage and out into the trees. Dusk had fallen, and a few scattered fires were dancing in the clearing outside. Thoros was waiting for her.

“My lady?” He was looking at her curiously.

Gendry spoke before she had even opened her mouth. “Not now,” he barked, and he took her hand and led her down a small path that wrapped around the hill. They walked in silence for several minutes, Arya letting him lead the way, her mind still in the cave.

He stopped abruptly and dropped her hand. Blinking, she looked around to see they were in a small clearing next to the hill. Gendry turned to face her, but he didn’t speak, just gestured to a fallen log as if to offer her a seat.

Arya dropped down and took a deep steadying breath as Gendry sat down beside her. “You were right. That’s not my mother,” she told him. “But you were wrong too. Somewhere inside that...gods, I don’t even know what to call it. Somewhere inside is a remnant of her, and I don’t know what to do with that. My mother died. She’s been dead for _ years _, but there she was, torn and broken and somehow alive. And what am I supposed to do, Gendry?” She turned to look at him, her eyes burning.

He studied her for several long moments. “Why did you come back to Westeros, Arya?”

She thought about that. When she’d left Braavos, she could have gone somewhere else, Myr or Pentos or another one of the Free Cities, but that really wasn’t true. She’d left because she couldn’t stay at the House of Black and White any longer, couldn’t complete her training. As much as she’d tried, she could never be no one. No matter how many names or faces she wore, she was Arya Stark of Winterfell, down in her very bones. And Arya Stark had a family, scattered and diminished they may be, but she had a family and she had a home and she had a list. And embracing Arya Stark meant embracing all of it, but she’s not sure how to explain it to him.

“I couldn’t be Arya Stark anywhere else.”

His eyebrows scrunched in, a question on his face.

“I’ve not been myself for a long time now,” she said slowly, looking down at her feet, “but I’m still me. Underneath it all, I’m still Arya Stark, and they couldn’t take that away from me, no matter how hard they tried. No matter how hard_ I _ tried. So I stopped trying, and I chose to be me again. And that meant coming home.”

She was quiet for a moment. “There are things that I need to do,” she said.

“Your list.” It wasn’t a question. “You still have your list.”

She nodded. “It’s got a few more names now that you’ve told me about the Boltons.” She paused, unsure of his reaction to her next statement. “And I’ve crossed names off as well.”

“Who?”

“Polliver, the Tickler, Raff the Sweetling.”

“You killed them?”

“The Hound killed Polliver. I killed the others.”

He looked at her, his face grim. “Good.”

They sat in silence, both remembering the horrors of Harrenhal. 

“So you came back for your list?” he asked quietly.

“Partly. I also came back to see Jon. To see Winterfell again.” She looked up at him. “To see you.”

At this, a small smile spread across his face, and she couldn’t help but smile back.

Then she remembered, and she sobered immediately. “I knew coming back would be hard, but I never expected...her. This- It complicates things.”

Gendry nodded, and then took her hand, lacing their fingers together. “Whatever you decide, Arya, I’m with you.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to,” he said quickly, cutting off her protests.

There was no lie in his words. He was with her, no matter what. And that made her heart swell with something she hadn’t felt in years. Arya leaned her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. After a moment, she felt a light pressure on the top of her head, and she smiled.

“It’s getting dark,” he said after a while. “We should probably head back.”

She sighed. He was right, but she didn’t want to go back quite yet. “Just a few more minutes.”

***

It was strange to see them all again. Thoros and Lem and Harwin. There were others she had known, but many she had not. They all sat around a fire, eating and drinking and laughing. Tom started singing, and she was suddenly back in Acorn Hall, rolling around in the forge, then pinned on the floor of her room in the inn. Flushing at the memory, she glanced at Gendry sitting beside her. His eyes were on her, and the look on his face ignited something deep in her core. She couldn’t look away from him, and her heart was suddenly racing. 

“Lady Arya?” Lem’s voice was loud in her ear.

“Hmm?” She turned to find everyone around the fire staring at her.

Lem was looking between her and Gendry, his eyes narrowed, and Harwin was scowling. Tom winked at her, and Thoros had an expectant look on his face. 

“I was wondering, my lady,” Thoros said, with the air of one repeating himself, “where you have been for these last few years.”

It took a moment for her to process what he had said. “Braavos,” she said shortly.

Thoros nodded slowly. “Yes, if you’d been in Westeros we would have heard something. The last we knew of you was at the inn with the Hound where he slew the Mountain’s men.” Gendry shifted beside her. 

“But beyond that, you were lost to us. I could not see you in the flames, child.” He peered at her. “Were you safe?”

“As safe as I could be.” 

“And now, you will be safe with us,” Harwin said.

She didn’t respond to that, but she could feel Gendry’s gaze on her. She wasn’t ready to think about what she was doing next. 

“So, what’s the Brotherhood been doing for the past several years?”

***

The first few days with the Brotherhood were fine, if a little strange, but no one seemed to know what to do with her. Lady Stoneheart wanted her by her side but she did not allow Arya accompany them outside the camp, for her own safety she was told. The ones left behind, save Gendry, all considered her a lady and were reluctant to let her do anything and barely spoke to her, fearing her mother’s wrath. 

Most of her time was spent with Gendry getting reacquainted, but after almost a week, he pulled her into the woods to tell her they were talking about sending him back to the inn. 

“I don’t think Lady Stoneheart wants me here,” he said. “She doesn’t want me with you.”

Arya wanted to protest, but she knew he was right. She’d seen her mother watching them, felt the disapproval directed at their friendship, relationship, whatever it was, and she knew it could be dangerous for him. Catelyn Stark would never have approved of her daughter spending time with a bastard blacksmith, but the most she would have ever done was banish him. But if Lady Stoneheart knew the thoughts Arya had been having, she would hang Gendry from a tree.

She looked up at him, and her stomach twisted at the thought of losing him, not after she’d finally found him again. “You can’t leave me,” she said quietly, her voice sounding altogether too vulnerable for her liking. 

“I don’t mean to, m’lady,” he said, grinning as she smacked his arm half-heartedly. 

***

The next day, riders returned with a small group of prisoners, and Arya finally saw firsthand what Lady Stoneheart was capable of. The three men they’d captured were Freys, but with them was a boy of no more than ten acting as squire. The trial, pitiful as it was, consisted of Lem accusing them of participating in the Red Wedding, the men denying it, and then Lady Stoneheart proclaiming them guilty and ordering them hanged. When they moved to tie a noose around the boy’s neck as well, Arya was stunned. 

“What are you doing? He’s just a child!”

“And he’s a Frey, Lady Arya,” Lem said. 

“Who would have been no more than six years old when the Red Wedding happened!” Arya glanced around, surprised to see no looks of outrage, although several people, including Gendry, looked distinctly uncomfortable, but afraid to speak. “You cannot kill a child. Keep him prisoner if you must, but if you hang him from that tree, I will do more than break that nose again.” 

Several of the men turned to Lady Stoneheart, waiting to see what she would do. Arya moved to face her, her mother’s eyes trained on hers. After a long moment, she raised her hand to her throat and croaked out one word. “_ Bran_.” 

Bran had been nine when he’d been pushed from that tower in Winterfell. Barely younger than the Frey boy standing terrified in front of them. Arya knew what she meant. Bran had not been spared because of his age, so neither should this boy. She could not believe that her mother would have ever killed a child. Whatever part of Catelyn Stark lived inside Lady Stoneheart, it was not her compassion or her sense of honor.

“_No_.” She stood defiantly in front of the thing that had been her mother. Arya would not let them kill this boy. There was no place for killing children, not even in a war. 

Lady Stoneheart stared at her for a full minute before turning and walking away. The three Frey men were dead within minutes, but the boy was tied up and Arya felt a rush of relief wash over her as she watched Tom lead him to the cave.

Arya looked around at the men watching her warily. They looked half impressed, half doubtful, but none of them seemed inclined to speak with her. Lem headed past her to the trees, but paused and said, “You best know what you’re doing, my lady,” before moving out of sight.

Gendry moved closer to her, looking uneasy. “Arya, you-” But his words were cut off when she grabbed his arm and dragged him away from the others. 

“How long has this been happening?” she demanded. “How many other children has she killed?” 

He looked pained. “I don’t know. I’m not always here for the trials. I’m either at the inn or out riding with some of the others. But I’ve never seen them hang anyone that young before.” 

He rubbed his hand over his face and took a deep breath. “Look, Arya, ever since Beric died...I knew that things were different. Beric gave the Hound a trial, and they set him free because he won. It was...honorable even if he should have died for what he did to your friend. But they didn’t just hang people.” He paused. “But that’s what they do, _ we _ do now. Yeah, there’s trials, but they all end the same way.”

She stared at him, feeling conflicted. The Lannisters deserved every death that was given to them. So did the Freys and the Boltons. Arya did not lament a single dead enemy, but part of why she’d left Braavos was because she had begun to find it impossible to distinguish between enemies and everyone else. 

Death had become part of her. She’d served the Many-Faced God, given the gift a dozen times over believing that it would bring them peace, just as she’d been told. That those who’d been chosen must have done something to deserve it, enemies of their god somehow. Until her final assignment. The kindly man had sent her to the Sealord’s palace as a serving girl. There was a kitchen maid, belly swollen with the ruler’s child, and the Sealord’s wife was a jealous and vengeful woman. 

Arya had returned to the House of Black and White, troubled for the first time over giving the gift. She’d asked the kindly man if it wouldn’t be better to wait. The kitchen maid may have deserved the gift, but the babe in her belly was a true innocent, but he had told her no, that it was not her place to question the Many-Faced God. The price had been paid, and the girl must die.

So she began to wonder. The ones who came voluntarily to accept the gift, that was their choice. But the others, how could it be the will of the Many-Faced God when someone else, someone like the Sealord’s wife, chose the death?

So she thought back to her other assignments. Her previous one had been a successful merchant in his twenties. He was handsome and seemed kind, but she hadn’t questioned that this man must die, that he must have done something to deserve it. Another had been a young, newly married bride who was rumored to have rebuffed the attentions of several wealthier men for the hand of her husband. 

Arya had certainly killed people who deserved it, in the name of the Many-Faced God and in her own. But her conviction that the gift always brought peace was gone. The kitchen maid and her babe did not deserve it. The young bride had not deserved it. The merchant had not deserved it. They were chosen by someone else, not a god.

This realization, that she was not an instrument, but a tool had awoken something inside her, and she knew she couldn’t do it, couldn’t kill the girl. Terrified of retribution but determined, she stood in front of the kindly man and reclaimed her name. She was not no one, she was not a weapon for others. She was Arya Stark, and she would only kill those who deserved it. He had simply tilted his head, a knowing look on his face as if he’d been expecting it and turned away from her. 

And now, witnessing how far the Brotherhood had fallen under the direction of Lady Stoneheart, she knew that she could not be a party to this, not if they were killing children. She looked up at Gendry, and he seemed to read something in her eyes because his expression softened for a moment before a dark look fell across his face and he glanced around quickly to see if they were being observed before pulling her deep into the trees away from everyone else.

“She’s not going to let you go, Arya,” he said, once they were far into the woods. “Not without a fight.”

“We’ll see about that,” she said grimly. “She doesn’t know what I’m capable of. No one does.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “What exactly are you capable of? What have you been doing these last few years?”

She shook her head at him. “Not yet.” She looked down at her hands.

“Why? What is it that you’re afraid of?”

She jerked back. “I’m not afraid.”

“You are,” he insisted. “I can see it.” He stepped closer, crowding into her space. “You can’t hide from me, Arya. I _ know _ you. I know you like I’ve never known anyone.”

“You don’t, not anymore,” she said quietly, looking down again. 

He took her chin firmly in his hand and raised it so she had no choice but to look him in the eyes. “_I do_,” he said fiercely. “And nothing you’ve done could ever change that. I know you’re different now. I’m not stupid. I can see it in your eyes, but you’re still you, Arry, and I know you.” His hand slid from her chin to her cheek.

Her eyes closed, and she tilted her head into his hand. “If I leave, will you come with me?” she asked, opening her eyes to gaze at him.

Gendry’s eyes bore into hers. “I told you, I’m not letting you go. From now on, anywhere you go, I follow.”

His hand was still cradling her cheek. His eyes were searching hers, and his thumb moved over to gently brush against her mouth. Her lips parted, and she let out a shaky breath. The corner of his mouth twitched up for half a second, and then he was kissing her and there was nothing gentle about it. The hand that had been so carefully holding her face was now tangled in the hair at the nape of her neck, and his other hand was wrapped around her waist pulling her flush against him. 

For one fleeting moment, she considered pushing him away, but then his tongue snaked between her lips and into her mouth, and she lost all sense of rational thought. She was alight, heat coursing through her, and she pushed into him, desperate for more. Gendry groaned against her lips, and she grinned, throwing her arms around his neck and lifting herself up to kiss him harder. 

She felt his hands slide down her body and grasp at her thighs to pull her legs up and around his waist. Vaguely, she registered that he was moving, and gasped when her back hit a tree. He pressed against her, the bark digging into her back as he kissed down her jaw. When she felt his teeth nip the side of her neck, she arched into him and made a noise halfway between a moan and a howl. 

Gendry pulled back from her, breathing heavily. 

“Why’d you stop?” she asked breathily, mourning the loss of his lips on her skin.

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. “Because if I don’t stop now, I won’t be able to,” he said huskily. “Not until I have you stripped bare beneath me.”

She hadn’t thought it possible to want him any more, but at his words and the image they created, she felt a hunger spread through her unlike anything she’d ever felt before. “I don’t want you to stop,” she breathed.

“We can’t, Arya. Not here. Not now.” He stepped back and set her down on the ground, her legs almost giving out underneath her. He held her up by her arms and kissed her lightly one more time. “You’ve got to get back before they realize we’re both gone.”

Reluctantly, she moved to put space between them. “Not now,” she nodded, knowing exactly what he meant, and her body ached with the promise.

***

Two days later, a small group of brothers turned up with a solitary prisoner. A man, about twenty years of age, had been caught near Darry with some Lannister armor. He looked terrified as Lem dragged him in front of Lady Stoneheart and threw the lion engraved breastplate to the ground. 

“You are a Lannister man,” accused Lem.

“No, no! I only found it. S’not mine. I swear i!t” The man was on his knees, begging.

Arya looked at him, and she could see that he was not lying. She glanced around at the others, and she knew that no one believed him, that he would soon be hanging from a tree.

Lem had moved closer. “We’re to believe that a Lannister soldier just abandoned his armor?”

The man was shaking. “Yes, yes. I found it in the woods off the Kingsroad. I swear. It’s not mine! I’m not a Lannister! I’m just a farmer!”

Arya watched Lem pull out a noose from under his cloak, and she stepped forward. “He’s telling the truth,” she said loudly.

Several of the men scoffed, and she saw Gendry shift and look around, eyeing them all cautiously. His hand moved down to rest on the hammer tucked into his belt. 

“Beggin’ your pardon, my lady, but Lannisters lie.”

“He’s not a Lannister,” she said. “And he’s not lying.”

Lady Stoneheart had not moved since Arya had stepped forward, but now she walked towards Arya, stopping ten feet away and staring at her. Arya did not look away. 

“He is telling the truth.”

The lady moved her hand to her throat and spoke, the word rattling through her fingers. “_How? _”

Arya did not answer. She turned to look at Lem. “Tell me something,” she told him. “Anything that I wouldn’t know about you, and I will tell you if it’s a lie.”

Lem turned questioningly to Lady Stoneheart who nodded at him. He looked back at Arya skeptically and shrugged his shoulders. “I was once knighted by Prince Rhaegar.” 

Arya looked at him for a moment. “True.”

Lem pulled back, startled.

She turned to Harwin. “Now you. Something I wouldn’t know.”

Harwin stared at her thoughtfully for a moment. “I used to help your Uncle Benjen with his saddle.”

“Partly true. You helped someone with their saddle, but not Uncle Benjen.”

His eyes widened in surprise. “It was your Aunt Lyanna.”

She went around the group, demanding each one tell her something. With each true or false, the men grew more and more bewildered. Gendry was staring at her, looking fascinated.

Thoros stepped forward. “Lady Arya,” he said, his voice quiet. “Can you explain?”

She considered him for a moment. “You’re from Myr, correct?”

He nodded, looking slightly puzzled.

“There is a place in Braavos,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “A temple with one door made of weirwood, the other of ebony.”

Thoros’s face blanched. “The House of Black and White,” he whispered. “That’s where you’ve been.”

She gave one quick nod of her head. 

Thoros moved to Lady Stoneheart, speaking in hurried, low tones. After a moment, she jerked her head to stare at Arya as Thoros talked quietly. Arya could hear muttering from the men around her, but she kept her eyes trained on Lady Stoneheart. 

Arya stared at her defiantly. Lady Stoneheart’s face was completely devoid of expression. When Thoros finished speaking, she nodded and then turned and left.

Thoros called out to Lem. “Blindfold the prisoner and have someone take him back to the Kingsroad and let him go.”

Immediately, several of the men protested, but Thoros raised his hand to silence them. “We will not kill those who do not deserve it, and this man is no Lannister.”

Arya stood motionless, watching as Lem covered the prisoner’s eyes and led him away through the trees. She felt Gendry move to stand behind her, but she didn’t turn around. Thoros slowly walked to stand in front of her, eyeing her warily. 

“Lady Arya…” he trailed off, looking uncertain.

“How long, Thoros,” she said. “How long has it been this way?” 

He looked away, and she could see the shame on his face. “Years, my lady.”

“And will she stop?”

Thoros stared at her for several long moments. “With you here, she might.” She felt Gendry shift behind her.

“I can’t stay here, Thoros. That is not my mother, and I cannot stay with her.”

He sighed. “Then, my lady, I’m afraid that she will not stop.”

Her heart sank. She looked Thoros in the eye. “Then you know what I have to do.” And he nodded sadly.

Gendry’s hand grabbed her wrist and spun her around to face him. His eyes were full of concern. “Arya, you don’t have to-”

“Yes, I do.” 

He opened his mouth to protest, and she reached up to silence him with her fingers. “I’ll be alright, Gendry. I promise.”

He looked doubtful, but he nodded at her.

Arya turned in the direction Lady Stoneheart had gone. No one followed her.

***

It was harder than she thought it would be. Gendry found her weeping thirty minutes later, cradling her mother’s body in her lap, Needle slick with black blood on the floor beside her. He didn’t speak or try to pull her away. He just sat down and pulled her against his chest, wrapping his arms around her as she cried. 

She didn’t know how long they sat like that, but eventually Harwin and Thoros came and carried Lady Stoneheart away. When she was gone, Arya curled into Gendry’s lap, and he just held her close. After hours or maybe just minutes, she wiped her eyes and looked up at him. 

“Can we go?”

Gendry nodded and helped her to her feet. Wordlessly, he took her hand and led her out of the cave. When they emerged into the late afternoon sunlight, Thoros was waiting for them. 

“My lady,” he said inclining his head to her. “Where will you go now?” 

She turned to Gendry, and looked up into his eyes. “North.” 

***

They returned to the inn that night, and this time she didn’t bother with a room. She just carried her things directly to the small room off the back of the forge and laid down on his cot. Exhaustion was creeping into her bones, and she just wanted to sleep.

When she briefly woke the next morning, Gendry was wrapped around her, his legs tangled with hers, and his arms holding her like a vise. Yawning, she closed her eyes and drifted back to sleep, savoring the feel of his body against hers. 

They stayed at the inn for a week, giving the Brotherhood enough time to find someone else to stay with Willow and the children. One of the orphans, Jon, who at almost five and ten was only a few inches shorter than Gendry, had been apprenticing under him for the past three years, and so Gendry felt considerably less guilt over leaving than he might have done. 

Each night, they curled up together in his cot, Gendry kissing her softly before closing his eyes for sleep. They hadn’t discussed the fevered kisses in the woods, but he seemed to know that she needed time and hadn’t pressed her for anything.

The day before they were planning to leave, Arya sat in the forge watching Gendry work. He was explaining something to Jon about the proper way to stoke the fire, and she couldn’t help noticing how often he reached up to push his hair out of his face. When she’d first seen him, he had it tied back, but it didn’t seem to be a regular thing for him because he hadn’t done it since.

“You need a haircut,” she told him after Jon had left, and he pushed his hair back for what had to be the hundredth time.

He glanced up at her quickly. “I know. I haven’t had it cut in ages. I don’t trust Willow to do it anymore after she cut my ear last time, and Jeyne’s not around enough for me to remember to ask her.”

“I can do it.”

He frowned at her. “You ever cut anyone’s hair before?”

“No,” she admitted, “but I’ve got steady hands, it can’t be that hard to just cut off a few inches. Besides, it’s clearly in your way, and I doubt we’re going to be coming across a barber anytime soon.”

He nodded at her. “All right. Let me get the scissors from Willow.”

Half an hour later, she was staring at Gendry’s back thinking that maybe her hands weren’t quite so steady after all. One man shouldn’t have that many muscles, and he definitely shouldn’t have to take his shirt off for a simple haircut. She managed to trim the back of his hair by mostly keeping her eyes on his head and not letting them linger on the broad lines of his skin. But moving around in front of the stool, with his legs spread so she could stand between them, that was far more difficult. Every time his thighs brushed against her, her heart would flip, and she was definitely finding it hard to breathe normally with the way his eyes were fixed on her. 

Gendry’s hands were resting on his knees, just inches away from her, and she was trying desperately not to think about how easy it would be for him to reach up and pull her flush against him. How he would only have to crane his head just a smidge in order for his lips to reach the crook of her neck. How all he had to do was ask and she’d willingly fall into his arms.

She huffed, trying to concentrate on his hair. His stupid, soft, thick, gorgeous black hair that she currently had her fingers tangled in. She shouldn’t have offered to cut his hair. She should have just let him carry on with tying it up in that stupid knot. Focusing hard on his hair and not the way his chest looked in the sunlight, she was finally able to set down the scissors and declare herself finished.

“Thank you,” he said, running his fingers through his hair and shaking his head. “Feels much better.”

She smiled down at him. “Looks better too. More like the Gendry I remember.”

She was still standing between his legs, and he reached out to pull her closer, gazing up at her with a serious look in his eyes.

“Arya,” he said slowly. “What’s the House of Black and White?”

Her heart sank. She had to tell him. Before he left everything behind for her, he had to know what she was now. 

She considered his question. How best to explain a group of death worshipping, face changing assassins. That she had been one of them.

“Do you remember Jaqen?”

He frowned at her, clearly taken aback by her question. “Jaqen?”

“From the Kingsroad. And Harrenhal.”

She could see him thinking, trying to remember. “With the weird red and white hair? The one who killed those men at Harrenhal, who helped you.”

She nodded. “Have you ever heard of the Faceless Men?”

“Yeah, who hasn’t heard of-” He stopped suddenly, comprehension dawning on his face. “That’s what he was. That’s- That’s where you went.” His arms fell from her waist, and he leaned back, away from her, his face horrified.

Arya’s stomach fell, and she felt tears spring to her eyes. He didn’t even want to touch her. She turned to go, but he caught her before she could take a step.

“Arya, wait,” he said, turning her back to face him. “That’s- That’s a lot to take in.” He pulled her closer. “You can’t just drop that on me and expect me not to react.”

She knew he was right, but it hurt all the same. 

He reached up and cupped her cheek. “Tell me the rest, Arya. Tell me what happened to you.”

So she did. Standing in front of him, encircled in his arms, she told him everything. About the kindly man and the waif and learning languages, how to lie, how to taste others’ lies. About learning poisons and washing dead bodies and faces hanging on the wall. 

Learning from the mummers how to carry herself, how simply changing the way you walk or the tilt of a head can change someone’s perception of you. Learning from the courtesans how to manipulate, how to seduce, though she was quick to assure him that it was a theoretical knowledge. That period of her training had been purely observational, not hands on. His arms had tightened around her, and his eyes had darkened considerably when she’d shared that bit of information.

Learning how to fight. The Faceless Men taught her to kill in countless ways without being detected or leaving a mark, but a thoroughly trained assassin needed more than just subterfuge and mummers’ tricks. So she learned water dancing and archery and how to throw knives and hand to hand combat. She knew pressure points that could bring down a man three times her size. She knew exactly where to slip a knife to make you bleed out in seconds. She knew death intimately and how to bring him to someone’s door with only a whisper.

And finally, about her assignments and the few she’d killed without being ordered to. About the merchant and the poisoned coin. About Dareon, the Night’s Watch deserter. About the bride and the kitchen maid and her swollen belly. How she’d come to realize what she was doing was nothing more than murder and so she’d left. And come to find him.

She didn’t know exactly how long she talked, but to his credit, Gendry sat quietly and listened without comment to her entire tale. His face still betrayed his feelings, no matter how hard he tried to control it. She saw anger, pain, worry, sorrow, but never disgust or loathing. She saw no judgment in his gaze, only regret.

When she finally trailed off into silence, he didn’t say anything, just tightened his arms around her.

“So...this is me, Gendry,” she said uncertainly, dreading to hear what he had to say.

He looked up at her, nodded, and said, “Okay.” Then he kissed her.

She pulled back, confused. “Okay? That’s it?”

“Anything important you left you?”

She shook her head.

“Then okay.” 

“But-”

“I already told you, Arry. Where you go, I follow.”

And her heart soared.

***

That night, they sat up late with Willow and some of the older children before stumbling back to Gendry’s room in the forge slightly drunk on ale. Arya collapsed on the bed, watching him move around the room. Despite the way she’d found him that first night, he’d kept his clothes on every night since they’d returned, and she suddenly thought what a shame that was.

“I know you like to sleep naked,” she said, and he froze. “You didn’t have to stop on my account.”

He turned around slowly, a slight smirk on his face. “Is that so, m’lady?” he asked in a low voice.

Somehow, his use of her title did not annoy her this time. Instead, it shot straight through her, and heat blossomed deep in her belly. She nodded at him. “I remember, from Harrenhal, waking you that night we left.” She paused. “If you’re more comfortable that way, I’d hate to stop you.”

He moved a step closer to her. “Very considerate of you, m’lady.” 

“Of course,” she said in mock seriousness. “A true lady strives to make those around her happy. She’d never ask them to do anything they found...bothersome.”

“Hmm. Clothes can be quite a burden at times.”

“Then maybe you should unburden yourself.” She hardly recognized her own voice, deep and throaty as it was.

His face grew serious. “Are you sure?” he asked quietly.

“Yes.”

Gendry looked at her for a long moment, then without breaking her gaze, reached down and pulled his shirt over his head, then kicked off his pants and smallclothes leaving him completely nude in front of her.

Her eyes dropped from his face to rake over his muscular form, and any lingering effects of the ale disappeared. Seeing him naked when he’d woken up in the middle of the night was one thing. Seeing him naked and aroused… She felt her mouth open, and an ache pulse between her thighs.

Breathing heavily, she forced her eyes back up to his face. And then he was moving towards her, pushing her back and down into the mattress. His lips were on hers, and his hands seemed to be everywhere. On her neck, in her hair, running down her legs, gripping her hips. She kissed him back, nipping and sucking on his lips. He groaned, and she felt a thrill of satisfaction run through her, and then she couldn’t get enough of him. She wanted to touch him everywhere, running her fingers down his back to his ass, trailing over his chest and stomach, tangling in his thick black hair as she let him kiss her senseless.

His mouth was moving away from hers, but before she could protest, he was moving to kiss her neck, teeth scraping against her skin, leaving a trail of fire in his wake as he moved down. 

“I seem to recall,” she said breathily, as his teeth scraped against her collarbone, “something about me being stripped bare beneath you. Was that just talk, Ser Gendry, or don’t knights honor their vows?”

His split second of hesitation felt like an eternity, but then he was sliding his hands up her torso, lifting her arms to drag her tunic over her head. She rarely bound her breasts, and she was suddenly quite aware of just how small they were. Gendry was hovering over her, staring down at her, an odd expression on his face. Struck with doubt, she moved to cover herself, but he caught her arms. 

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he growled at her. “Don’t you hide from me.” He sounded almost angry, but she could hear a note of insecurity running through his words. 

Swallowing hard, she shook her head. “Never,” she whispered and let her arms fall back to the cot. Gendry sat back on his knees straddling her, his eyes drifting down to her chest, and she saw his mouth open slightly as he let out a shaky breath. 

He raised his hands and tentatively palmed her breasts. His touch was like fire, and instinctively, she arched up into him, letting out a strangled cry. 

The noise seemed to wake something up inside him because he immediately bent over, and if she’d thought his hands were fire, his mouth was an inferno. Her hands flew to his hair, needing something to hang on to as she writhed under his tongue, his lips, his teeth. 

A sound she’d never heard herself make before fell from her throat and if he hadn’t responded by snaking an arm under her and pulling her even closer, she might have been embarrassed. But then he growled against her, and the sheer animalistic sound of it shot straight to her core, banishing any thought except how much she ached for him.

As if he’d read her thoughts, his hand drifted from her breast and down her stomach, hooking his fingers in the band of her breeches. Her hips rolled up almost involuntarily, and he stilled for a moment and released her breast from his mouth, looking up at her in silent question.

Eyes locked on his, she moved her hand down to cover his and guided them to tug on her laces. Gendry kept his gaze on her face as he untied her breeches, and slid them over her hips and down her legs. Taking a deep breath, he moved his hands back to her waist to tug off her smallclothes, leaving her completely bare before him.

Arya watched his face as he sat back, his eyes traveling over her naked body. She saw the way his lips parted and his jaw clenched. She saw the sharp intake of breath as she let her thighs fall open. 

And then he was on her again, kissing her desperately and pressing skin against skin, hands running down her side to settle between her legs, coaxing desperate moans from her throat.

There was a pinch of pain as he slid inside her, but as they moved together all she could feel was Gendry. Gendry on top of her whispering in her ear. Gendry’s chest colliding with hers. Gendry’s hips driving into her. Gendry’s hands tangled in her hair. Gendry’s teeth leaving marks on her neck. Gendry. Gendry. Gendry.

And then she shattered. Back arched, head back, legs gripped tight around him, she shattered into a thousand tiny pieces, only coming back together once he’d stilled on top of her. 

She lay still, listening to his breathing even out, feeling his heartbeat slow. He lifted his head and kissed her languidly, smiling against her lips.

“You never would have done that before I left,” she said thoughtfully after a few minutes.

He looked at her sharply. “You were barely three and ten, Arya. Of course I wouldn’t have.”

“That’s not what I meant, Gendry. Even if I’d been older, even if I’d wanted you to, begged you. You wouldn’t have done it.”

His face was serious. “No, I wouldn’t have. Too bloody lowborn.”

“So what changed?” she asked.

“You mean, why am I fine with taking your maidenhead?” He smirked at her.

She rolled her eyes. “You didn’t take it. I gave it to you, stupid.”

He pulled himself up to look at her. “I thought I’d never see you again. Thought you most likely dead. Then, we heard you’d married that Bolton bastard. I knew it couldn’t be you, that you’d kill him first, but the thought of you... Gods, Arya, I was so furious I could barely see straight.” He paused. “The thought of you...with someone, married to someone. I never should have thought of it like that. You wouldn’t have been willing, but-” He looked at her, shame on his face. “The thought of you with anyone other than me...” 

His arm tightened around her. “So I swore, I swore to myself that if you ever came back to me that I wasn’t going to hide it. If you wanted me, I was yours.”

He had that look on his face again, from that very first day. When he’d pinned her down and told her he couldn’t let her go. Arya hadn’t wanted to think about it then, but now... She looked at him, searching his face for any sign of a lie and she found nothing. 

“Okay. You’re mine.”

A broad smile slowly spread across his face, his eyes crinkling in joy. 

He rolled over onto his back, pulling her on top of him. “So,” he said slowly. “Courtesans?”

She nodded, flushing slightly.

“Learn anything interesting?”

She nodded again, then pulled herself up and sat back, straddling his waist and grinned. “Want me to show you?” 


End file.
